


Nammu Nerevar

by Bewscuttles



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Epistolary, F/F, F/M, Gen, Letters, M/M, Religious Conflict, Research
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bewscuttles/pseuds/Bewscuttles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty years after the Red Year, two researchers embark on a mission to discover the true identity of the anonymous Nerevarine. </p><p>Meanwhile, in the Third Era, a series of unlikely bystanders witness a young misanthrope as they journey across the island of Vvardenfell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a series of writing prompts I made for the Elder Scrolls.](http://writingbzzz.tumblr.com/post/148846943625/elder-scrolls-prompts)

* * *

_Greetings and salutations to the exquisite Danasi_ —

My dear colleague, I'm afraid I've much to include in this letter and the hour grows shorter by the candle. I will try to keep to the most salient points, but this subject as always is a long business. I'd rather not punish a single courier and I do so hope you will forgive my curt response. The coin does not flow heavy this time of year.

To begin with, the Neravarine, alias the Hero of Vvardenfell, alias the True Incarnate, alias Nerevar Reborn, among an ecletic number of titles, was a figure of great notoriety. Indeed, it is an understatement to declare him—or her; we really must endeavor for an answer on this—merely a champion of their people. In fact, such tripe would be an offense to their legacy and the events that follow.

But as we're not paid for moral bluster (though I must say the field is quite saturated at the moment), I will begin on the point of their victories, or rather, the victories that are not in current dispute. The slayer of Dagoth Ur, of course; Hircine was bandied about as a possible casualty; and there is Almalexia, and perhaps Sotha Sil, though the timeline is under consideration; and the subject of Vivec is a complicated matter, as always. I'd rather not force an impression that may or may not be correct (or proven to be both) in the final manuscript, so I depend on you to confirm or deny these accusations in particular, as you have such a subtle hand. The conclusion: about five gods killed. A respectable record, I should say! Our fellow kept well to his predecessor's title.

Of the mundane variety, I've documented quite a few claims of rescues, break-ins, miracle curings, assassinations that might not have been completely intentional (more a case of happy circumstance—no doubt the Tong did not appreciate these little mix-ups!), and one curious case of reuniting star-crossed lovers. These claims are contested and the records still in existence are rather charred and mangled. I've yet to verify the majority. The undertaking will take quite some time and I fear we will be lost in the trees for want of the forest, as the Colovians say. (I won't be the first to say the Red Year was an upset in every regard.)

The Great Houses have all claimed an association to our fellow, with an actual rank beyond Hortator; I can't tell whether they've collaborated to stump us biographers, but if so they are doing a splendid job. The only assurance I offer lies in Dres's complete and utter distaste towards outlanders and Indoril's rather conspicuous silence. As I'm sure you've already guessed, I doubt if any House had truly been chosen among the rest, they would not be so secretive. Perhaps they were all denied.

When the Empire pulled out of Vvardenfell during the Crisis, they managed to destroy a number of records in their haste. (For all the joke fodder, the Empire's meticulous paperwork has failed rather abominably in this regard; you should see the ink stains, the fingerprints on these documents! If only our fellow had conquered with a pen rather than a sword!) The Legion has always held its own close, away from scrutiny. The Shrines, especially the size of Vvardenfell's, were primarily volunteers and will not reveal themselves. I thought I was crafty, searching through the Census and Excise documentation, but it seems the Emperor was slyer than I: Not a single prison ship came to port within the month, apparently, though the prisoners themselves were documented as arriving. And as for the Blades, I will answer honestly: I still believe our fellow's membership a rumor, despite the Temple's claims of heresy. If you truly think the Emperor would employ a guar herder into his most secret ranks, let alone someone as volatile as our fellow seemed to be, then please, I invite you to prove me wrong. (Not that I am doubting you, my dear! Merely suggesting that an individual of intense privation such as ours would never dare willingly join a society like the Blades.)

As for the guilds, I am not certain. The guides stupidly did not keep a record of who used their services. The Fighters Guild was so incredibly corrupt, it is a project unto itself to untangle false evidence from truth. The Mages Guild employed a figurehead as its leader, and they suffered for it. The Thieves Guild was embroiled in a turf war with the Comonna Tong at the time, far from the eyes of the law. (And I would question the veracity of any documents they bothered to keep.)

The Tong does not reveal identities on principle. Certain concerned persons, however, would like it said that the Foresters Guild accepts members of every race and sex, so long as they prove competent towards their administrative goals. These persons would also prefer relayed that if the Nerevarine were descended from the Good Daedra, and thus their patron Mephala, then it is most likely he, or she, was a member during the period in question. (Quite the friendly people, your kinsmans' assassins! The Brotherhood was never so accomodating, nor held a public relations position. It's quite the culture shock, I must say.)

The Ashlander Tribes were reluctant to speak with an outlander on such heavy topics. They encouraged me to study their gift-giving culture as I have this topic, and bid me leave so that I may return with "lots and lots of the Emperor's gold." (I am paraphrasing, of course, but not by much.) I doubt, however, our project will receive a grant quite so soon with so little progress to show. They will have to wait, I'm afraid.

Overall, I fear our labors will be more fiction than biography if we were to begin writing now. Although _The Real Barenziah_ has sold very well since its first publication, I don't wish to stoop so low as a political attack on our dear fellow. Firstly, because I believe our friend worthy of a well-researched story, rather than the sort of trollop the Courier pushes; secondly, because I would rather not face the religious uprising if we were to, ahem, _embellish_ the details. Already we face considerable pushback for that piece on the Temple's pet saints. Our credibility is all we have left, and I would not lose that for a mere trifling gold coins.

Hopefully your research into the Blades brings us more luck. But please, no more talk of your guar herder. It's rather tiring.

Regards,  
Pustula Baenius II

PS. The city of Blacklight is simply enchanting! I urge you to come join me from Necrom and partake in the wonderful local delicacies as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

Dearest Pustula,

Your penmanship, as your namesake, is still atrocious. Were it not already red within my eyes, they would turn so from your detestable scrawlings. Remedy this.

And again I remind you I am not stupid, nor blind. You act as though I am both, if your parroting of my own research were not enough. I know, you buffoon, what I know. Although I doubt _you_ know the meaning of concise. By Vivec.

Your points, in order:

One: Delve deeper, s'wit, so that the Dwemer should not hope to find you. For every small miracle there is a blessed saint behind it. Use your eyes.

Two: The Great Houses will war over the Nerevarine's House status as they will over everything. Start with the Telvanni, as they are as apathetic as their towers are high, and will not care for mere status if they disinherit their claim. However (and take heed, you tone-deaf fool!) do not remind them of their past failings. For you this means finding one young enough never to have failed, an apprentice who seeks glory and bribes. Be delicate. They smell weakness like a slaughterfish does blood in the water.

Three: And I shall remind you as I have a thousand times before: The Blades were a secret order. Secrets, if you so please, sera, are things that are hidden, whether behind closed doors or laid out in plain sight. I know this must strain you so, yet I ask for you to _think_. And I will ask you again: Who would you _think_ the Emperor's spy: the Imperial who preaches the Empire's wonders, or the guar herder who disturbs no one?

They are covers. To uncover a lie you must seek out the unassuming individual, for they well know the social niceties. We know the Emperor had a hand in the Nerevarine's emergence; the Old Temple declared it so, and Lord Vivec's words corroborate it. You may consider the Trial a cover-up, but we both know well no daedra could steal the ALMSIVI. Lord Vivec knew things we can never comprehend, and if he believed the Emperor politicked his way into Prophecy, then it is so. I will continue in this thread myself. Refrain from comment hereafter.

Four: I will ignore your tripe on the Morag Tong. They will come when ready, when they see us fit for consumption, rather as the spider waits for prey on its web. As we prove ourselves competent they shall appear. For a price, naturally.

Five: The Ashlanders, however, cannot be ignored. I will send my brother-in-law for this matter. There is no point in arguing otherwise; yet this will not deter you, so I will say this in hopes of precluding a reply: The Ashlanders do not respect you, and already your way of thinking has poisoned them to our project. You think them all of one tribe; you think they will simply tell you everything for nothing; you think a topic of such significance will be relayed in plain words. On every count the answer is no. Sedura s'wit. Do not contact them again.

Our credibility is questioned, there is no denying this. But we cannot lose what we have not yet earned. Patience is required in this thing. The Temple does not trust us, and so they deny us their records, as does your Imperial contacts. We will continue as we have.

In the meantime I shall continue studying our scarce references. We should thank Azura's Star for Sister Milo's meticulous record-keeping. It has been our only reprieve in this era of ignorance. And as for you, you will stay within sight of your guides. Do not attempt to swim to Vvardenfell. The Redoran practice mercy only to a point.

Boethiah guide you, as you will need it,  
Serjo Sadras Danasi Oril  
4E 46

 

* * *

 

 _For the loveliest Danasi Oril_ —

Have I ever told you that your humor is simply splendid? I spent a happy few minutes poring over your response. Both informative and caustic! The acerbic wit of your people is perhaps my favorite thing about this trip. I'm enjoying my stay here very much if only for the disapproving looks I've garnered dressed as I am in traditional nobleman's _telmin_. I've received quite a few comments, though none compare to yours.

The Redoran have been a very accommodating, very generous sort. They've taken me to the more relevant of their vaults. The wealth they keep! Yet not of the kind we need. Apparently a well-equipped thief robbed their vaults blind in the Third Era. (Do you think it our fellow?) The gentleman ran off with enough land deeds and receipts to make even an Orc raise an eyebrow. And if the tales are to be believed, such a feat was repeated for nearly every House vault. Enterprising robbers come and go, but thieves of such caliber are once a generation. If we clear our current project, I must insist on studying these delightful rapscallions.

Having taken your advice, I consulted with my guides and they've agreed to bring me along with them on a trip to the remaining Telvanni holdings. I've asked around for other possible places, for I do not wish to be slaughtered by an Argonian raiding party, but not many in Redoran know where to pursue such lines of thought. Some young battlemages advised searching through tombs, as the Telvanni folk are a blaphemous sort; quite a few said to sell myself into the slave trade, as that is the only way to attract their attention. I've no clue whether they were being facetious or not, so I've decided to go with the former until further notice. I shall reserve the latter for a rainy day.

As it stands, enclosed with this letter are several pages of manuscript drafts. I encourage you to look through them and tell me, honestly and truly, what you think. Don't hold back for my sake! (Not that I doubt your prior honesty.)

Please send Dramis my respects and thanks. If it weren't for his largesse I've no doubt we'd be far less fortunate in our studies.

Your faithful colleague,  
Pustula Baenius II

PS. I really must insist you come visit! The fermented ash yam wine is a treasure.

 

* * *

 

_I've taken some liberties. Merely theories from which I've expanded on, of course, but you realize our limitations. My notes are available if you bid me send them.—PB_

 

"Nammu Nerevar";  
or, The Investigations into The Origins of an Innominate Hero of Prophecy, The One Titled Nerevarine, or Indoril Nerevar Reborn

**Foreword**

The Third Era of Tamriel's history is one of shining promise. It begins with the rule of Tiber Septim, known now as Talos, and spreads steadily across the continent, uniting the nations and kingdoms under one Empire. Roadways and communication lines are maintained throughout each province. Trade is at an all time high. The Imperial Legion swiftly resolves encroaching conflict. Peace settles over the Arena.

Soon enough, however, an ominous cloud descends. Emperor Uriel Septim VII is first captured in 3E 389 and imprisoned by the traitor Jagar Tharn; in 3E 433, forty-nine years later, he is assassinated by the Mythic Dawn, and the Empire falls victim to the daedric hordes. Many think this the defining moment of the era, and quite a number of scholars would agree. But previously, before the Oblivion Crisis, there was another event once thought the exempletive spirit of the fifth century's last generation: the fulfillment of the Prophecy of the Nerevarine.

None have captured the public's curiosity so well as the anonymous hero of Dunmeri legend. Arriving on the shores of Morrowind's iconic island and Temple landmark, Vvardenfell, in approximately 3E 427, the Nerevarine quickly dispatched within the year the Sharmat Dagoth Ur and and his nefarious Blight Curse. In the process, the Tribunal of the Dunmeri faith were denounced and cast out of their Temple, leading to a period of unrest and soul-searching amongst their worshippers. After presumably finishing their work, the Nerevarine disappeared without a trace just a scant few years before the Crisis engulfed the continent.

But despite the wealth of information we now have, one must ask: Who truly is the Nerevarine?

Of all the previous Imperial champions of recent times, the Nerevarine's anonymity outstands the competition. Scholars have pieced together biographies devoted to Martin Septim and the Eternal Champion, dedicated scores of academic texts to Potentate Ocato's and Titus Mede's early lives, and yet above them remains a figure who rightly inherited the title "Godkiller," as unknown as the common fishmonger.

Again one must ask: Who was this great figure? Who were they—not as a myth, but a flesh-and-blood person?

It is said you can take the measure of a man by how he views his past. Indeed, if we studied the Nerevarine in this way with our current findings, we'd find an empty shell, bereft of any motivation beyond Daedric meddling. A sad existence, to be sure.

What we do know of the Nerevarine paints very broad strokes on a faded canvas:

They were previously a foreigner to Vvardenfell's shores.

They were in possession of a distinctive martial prowess.

They were rumored to have survived the Curse-of-Blight, or Corprus, a particularly virulent and fatal form of Blight disease.

They united Vvardenfell's Great Houses and Ashlander tribes under one banner.

They were accused and subsequently pardoned by the Triune Temple for heretical dealings with the Nerevarine Cult.

They destroyed the Sharmat Dagoth Ur under Red Mountain.

These things, while moving, do not give a clear picture of the struggling folk behind the Indoril mask.

Without any conclusive evidence, one must ask again, but this time more specifically: Who was the Nerevarine before they became the Nerevarine?

And I propose this: Let us start our journey with an entirely hypothetical situation. Suppose there was a young Imperial child, born an orphan in the idyllic Cyrodiil countryside, her distinguished Colovian features soft in cozy slumber.... 

 

* * *

  
_3E 400_

It is on a certain day, within the last age of the Septim Empire, before the whole of Tamriel is swallowed by hellfire and blight, that a young boy is born screaming into the world. So piercing, so terrified are his first shrieks, the mid-wife swears it is a death knell; and for weeks afterward she will recall the birth with a halting wariness.

The state of the Empire is bountiful and strong, yet not all her citizens share in this wealth. Today the mid-wife was called by appointment to the Waterfront, where the sewage of the white-marble city drains into Lake Rumare. Here the facades of buildings are built from the worthless debris of the lake, putrid castaways unneeded elsewhere, and the folk are garbed in the patchy remains of fabric. And it is here that the mid-wife startles from her work.

When she looks up from binding the newborn, she will discover that, indeed, as the babe's cries confirm, the mother expired through the birth. Besides herself and the babe, the mid-wife is alone in a run-down flat, accompanied by a miserable corpse. She searches for anything of worth, anything at all, among the rotting wood, the spare furniture, the bare walls, something to harvest from this venture; but when she finds nothing, she is left with a sad choice: She mutters a prayer to the Blessed Three— _ALMSIVI guide this woman to the homeland, and may her ancestors find her_ —and slides the corpse's eyelids shut. There is nothing to be done about the house or the woman. Eventually someone will find them both empty and take care of the problem.

It is twilight. Although First Seed usually retains the chill of the winter months, this dawn is extraordinarily mild. The babe has stopped crying, its ashy face screwed up in a scowl of distaste. Despite the terrible start to her day—she has no coin to show for her hours-long work, and now she is stuck with a nameless, ancestor-less orphan—she finds this mature expression captivating.

"A little lord," she cooes. A fitting birthsign for such a loud, surly child. Even his bright red hair sticks up in defiance of her hand. She remembers her grandfather, who had been a priest of the Triune Temple in Morrowind, and decides the babe has a marked resemblance to a dour old mer.

Eventually she finds the usual spot, a little chapel hidden amongst the trash and dilapidated shacks lining the shoreline. The monks that live there are devoted to the Imperial Divines—not her kind of gods, the kind that never speak, never knew the adversity of mortality, not like her once-mortal ALMSIVI—but they take in all kinds of people, as Blessed Almalexia calls for, and she approves at least of their charity. This is not the first time she has dropped off a newborn at their doorstep, and no doubt it won't be the last.

As she approaches, the sun slowly rises to greet the pair, and for a flash of a brief moment, when she looks down she could swear the babe's eyes turn a startling light-blue. But as soon as she focuses, they are the dark brooding red as before, and she wonders on this. Perhaps the date is of some significance, and this portends something ominous. Better for her, then, to rid herself of the child and move on. A weight lifts off her back the moment she places him in the caretaker's arms.

After all, nothing but dark promise comes from a child born in the twilight of Azura's day.

For a long time thereafter, the mid-wife wonders about the babe, wonders on his future, wonders on the dead mother who could only afford the mid-wife, denying herself food and water for the birth. She will wonder about this until her death thirty-three years later, after living a rather ordinary but not unhappy life, buried just a day before the Gates open and the land is torn asunder.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

 

* * *

 

Precious Pustula,

I marvel at your unceasing idiocy. It stretches out your mouth as a river and flows into the sea of ignorance that is your writing. Praise be to your Kynareth, for her tempests rage on within you.

"Taken liberties"! You've taken as many liberties as a tyrant. The only truth lies in your numbers, and I cannot stomach to add the sum for the number of your lies.

What is the point of your ridiculous fantasies? "Imagine a young Imperial girl..." B'vek, why would I imagine such a disgusting thing? The terrible life of an unknown orphan, poor in wealth yet rich in love from her caretakers — yes, yes, I am moved to pity. The ideal heroine of your kind's novels, untarnished purity aflame in the vast darkness of the cruel foreign lands, woe be upon her. (Yes, I've read the novels you sent me. Stop sending them.) Of course she's an understated beauty — it's as if you live to torture me. Through Imperial guile she diplomatically eases the tensions between races, suffers patiently the wrath of the Houses, and abolishes slavery — parallels to your Alessia, fatigued am I; you've the temerity to name her Avessa. Her perseverance is sickening.

You accuse a Dunmeri champion of such blasphemy and have the gall to spin your lies as truth? Azura's wisdom. Not for you, but for me.

I will ignore the seventeen pages of fantasy-tripe and instead look to your introduction. Here at least there is some truth to work with.

To begin: An over-long, ostentatious title. This best be for attracting attention, or I will pare you down as I will it.

This manuscript speaks for Vvardenfell and the Nerevarine, and yet you introduce Septim's Empire of all things. Outrageous claims you make. "Peace settles over the Arena" — no, kwama, do not presume. Were there not several wars under your precious Septim line? I can easily produce a chart of the era in question.

Speak of Morrowind, s'wit. Of the Dunmer people, of our ancestors, our struggles, of the Blessed Three. The island where it began. The Ashlanders. The Good Daedra. The Red Mountain. The Great Houses, their rise and fall. Anything but your thrice-damned Empire. Is it not enough I write in your language, speak it, dress in your styles and partake in your customs, and within my own land, and yet with _our_ prophecies you speak incessantly of nothing but our conquerors? One day I will write in Daedric script and revel in your throbbing headache.

The Nerevarine was ours, in the ways that counted. Not the person, but the title, and the trials, and the enemy. Whether _this_ Nerevar was our hero or our downfall, he was always ours.

You are correct (however this may displease me to admit) in the known facts. An outlander, an outsider, considered an n'wah and an usurper. A liar and a foreigner. Afflicted with Corprus he may have been, by way of the Seven Visions. A heretic, of course, as is tradition among our people. The Hortator of the Houses. All are correct. Yet I hold reservations, though I will not reveal them to you at this time.

Remember my words and throw away your manuscript. Begin again. Turn your flesh from the inside-out and use the blood as ink. That is my advice to you.

But now we should speak of my research. By my contacts I have discovered tracks of correspondence sent from a certain Hlaalu counseler to the mainland. I am speaking of course of Crassius Curio, that farcical playwright you so adore. Apparently he was as prolific a writer in his professional life as he was his obscenities. I will gather your ruined manuscript and his letters and send them to you for your perusal. And I will add this: If you gift me yet another copy of _The Lusty Argonian Maiden_ , I will remove your spear so that no maid shall polish it.

As for the rest of your letter: I pray you speak in jest, but I cannot afford the luxury of common sense with you. Do not sell yourself into slavery. Do not commit blasphemies upon holy ground. If I learn of any indisgressions I will personally seek you out and perform the Rites of Boethiah upon you.

Blessings of Mephala, who ties our strings together,  
Serjo Sadras Danasi Oril  
Dated 14 Sun's Dusk

 

* * *

  _3E 407_

 

His name is Brother Boris, and he has a terrible problem on his hands.

The problem's name is Neravys, and he hates everything about Boris.

It is, as it always is with this particular child, exceptionally difficult to cultivate respect for authority. He is a distrustful lad, with a marked disdain for anyone friendly, a hatred of pleasantries, and an especially hot temper towards education, or more generally _learning_ of any kind. It seems no matter the attempt made to bridge such a chilly gap, Neravys is adept at discerning strategies. It takes a mere single gesture, a smile, a simple question, for him to tell his caretakers to _bugger off_ —and no one knows where he picked up such language—he doesn't want friends, and he certainly doesn't want caretakers minding him, it isn't as if they are his _dead mother_.

Indeed, the lad holds a number of strange and violent tendencies that distance him from others: an aversion to redheads, despite his own coloring; climbing atop roofs and watching the moons with an unwavering intensity; quarreling with the other children over trivial things that often break into fist-fights; refusing to speak with any Dunmer, whether juvenile or adult; stealing tinderboxes, matches, flintstones, and then setting fire to twigs and sticks, waving them about like a lunatic; twisting and turning violently in his sleep, crying out from imagined blows, such vivid dreams he speaks of like memories after waking; and his back—oh, what child guards their back with such wariness, such suspicion, that one could tell his distress by how he snarls and clings to the wall? His is a daedric spirit trapped within the confines of a mere boy, and every one of the monks fears the next disturbance it will bring.

And thanks to this, Boris's fellow monks have discounted Neravys entirely. It is useless to teach a pupil who is so opposed to schooling. Which of course leaves Boris with a terrible problem: teaching the boy things his colleagues do not bother to try. It is why Boris is outside the monastary, searching for his missing charge when he should be cooking supper.

The boy is very good at hiding. Really very good. If he would put half as much effort into scholastics as he does into avoiding it, he would be right at home with the rest of the monks, whose order is dedicated to Julianos, the Divine of Wisdom. But the boy is what he is—immature, wild, half-mad—and Boris expects it will take a great deal to change this. He fears he is not prepared for the challenge.

"Neravys!" Boris exclaims yet again. The Imperial countryside, temperate and peaceful, stirs at his cries. Yet a little Dunmer boy does not appear. Autumn is nearly upon them, and the leaves and undergrowth reflect this with bright reds and oranges, and a smattering of purple here and there. It is the best season for a red-headed, grey-skinned boy to hide. The frustration is nearly at tea-boiling point for poor Boris.

"Neravys En, you unpious lout, come out before you earn yourself ten lashes! You much as well know Brother Filius is just waiting to mark your back!"

A little snort.

Boris looks up from beneath a fig tree and catches a glimpse of a bare dirty foot kicking off a branch. With an exasperated sigh, Boris pins back his cooking pinafore and scrabbles up the tree, his skin prickling from the bark, cursing himself, Neravys, and whatever unholy concoction of daedra created the boy. He hasn't climbed a tree in twenty years, not since when he himself was a lad, and it shows; at least, that is how he interprets the malicious snickers coming from up the trunk.

When he reaches a middling branch that can bear his weight, he settles down. He feels rather like a partridge, with his brown overrobes, white belly of a pinafore, and the frayed mess that is now his tonsure. Glancing upwards, he finds the boy sitting on a higher branch, his smug smile covered in a gooey red mess, his shorn-short red hair full of leaves and twigs. The way he perches is with an easy confidence that needles Boris' already-strained patience. His order discourages any form of vanity, and this showing is yet another mark against their teachings. Once again he wonders where in the name of Oblivion the boy picked up such behavior.

"You," says Boris, sighing. He glances up again and realizes the branches above him won't support his weight. He'll have to coax the boy down. "Why are you up here?"

The boy doesn't even look in his direction before making a rude gesture. The fig in his gooey paw oozes down his arm.

Boris gapes. "You—where did you learn—in all my years—" He blusters on for some minutes before realizing Neravys isn't listening. "Young man, your rudeness will receive no favors! We're raising you to be a productive member of Akatosh's Empire, and this is how you show our patience? By skiving off chores and snacking in a tree?"

The boy waves a lazy hand. He is the very picture of an indolent boy-king, reclining on his fig-bracken throne, watching the late afternoon change color to evening's peace. Boris forces himself to silence and watches the sky in a measure for calm. The breeze plucks a leaf and swings it pendulously through the air until it lands at the edge of the tree's shadow.

"Took long enough," says the boy, breaking the silence. "Been here'n hour an' no one came."

It is rare for the boy to volunteer information. Boris cannot waste this opportunity.

"Why are you up here?" he repeats, this time in what he hopes is a neutral tone.

The boy merely eyes him up and down, an unimpressed frown creasing his dark lipline. He takes a bite of fig, chews in thought, then says:

"Don't get you lot." As if remembering a particular offense, he scowls. His eyes never stray from the purpling horizon. "I'm not like—the way you try to make me, I'll never be that way. Six years'n I don't wanna do with some _gods_. It's useless. Just like those Dark Elf fetchers. Lotta talk 'bout gods'n love'n mercy'n being _chosen_ 'n stuff, but it's never been like that, not for me." He throws his half-eaten fig at the ground and stares at it for some time.

"Er," says Boris.

"Whatever gods there are," says Neravys, glaring down at him, "I'm not like that. I ain't gonna suck up to 'em. They don't want me anyway. You lot ain't gonna change me into one'a you."

"Neravys, we're not..." Boris begins gently, but the boy flashes him a very convincing sneer for his age.

"Don't try'n pretend we're _friends_." He smiles a nasty red-toothed smile. "I'm just telling you what's what. Minute I'm old enough, I'll be outta your life, and I won't be back—I'm not gonna stick around with you old men'n your stupid old man god. You lot think I'm crazy? Well, I think you're even crazier. Go find some other kid to play with, 'cause I'm leaving."

And with that said, as Boris protests, the boy nimbly drops from his branch, light on his toes, and then lands on the ground with barely a sound. He makes another rude gesture at Boris and runs off into the distance, towards the monastery, and all Boris can do is sigh and wonder how to spin this event in his favor. Filius will not be pleased.

Three years later, at ten years of age, the boy runs off again for the last time. Boris prays for him every day for the next few months before the name Neravys slips his mind. He will not forget, however, the feeling of letting a young boy down, and it will stay with him for a lifetime, until a daedra disembowels him the second day of the Crisis in front of the fig tree.

 

* * *

 

Oh my word, dear Danasi! My heart!

Such cruelties stain the page, and my poor heart, my poor heart aches! Oh, how could you! Dear, dear Danasi, how could you rip out my heart and stomp upon it with such gusto, such indifference? I'll have you know Crassius Curio is indeed the most subversive, most adept satirist of the age, of all the ages! His biting commentary (including the literal ones) are the mark of high wit, higher than even the gods! Can you not understand his beautiful works, his clever asides, his breathing, living soliloquies? His is the lovingly tended pages of genius! Did you not see, _The Lusty Argonian Maiden_ is a subtle nudge from playwright to audience, hiding between its obscenities blasphemies against the most effective of lubricants — I mean gold, of course. My heart, my poor wretched heart! You've crushed and torn it so!

I've only enough parchment for a short message so I will add this: Currently ensconced within ancestral tomb, volunteered. Very ancient process in Necrom, I've heard. Priests anxious, no sign of Telvanni. Need help, at some point. Must speak with you about CC, must change opinion. Also, food supply running low.

— PB

* * *

_3E 415_

 

They call her Tippy. Ten years a beggar off Leyawiin's streets, and she's more than earned the name. People think she's annoying, or just plain bossy; they're wrong, actually, as she's both. She's also obnoxious, a bully, plucky, and incredibly nosy—but then, it's not as though being a beggar breeds good habits, and her annoying traits are what brings in the coin. People might hate her, but that doesn't mean they don't need her. Tippy knows well that being _needed_ is far more preferable, if not the most fun way of it, then being _wanted_.

Today is the routine turn-around the length of the city. Start by the guards, peddle a few bits of rumors about the Grey Fox, just to keep them light and frothy. Counter-clockwise, head for the Plaza, seek out the young apprentices of the local guilds, learn some gossip, even if it's not strictly useful—those guild types don't appreciate jokes at their expense, real snippy if you mention they busted another window by fireball. Head up north and see the Chapel, lose a few drakes and get a few hours of a pleasant kip, wash up and catch a few threads of conversation. Zenithar likes her, no doubts about it, or else He wouldn't let her in His holy place—she reckons it's her business acumen that keeps the wheels greased here, and no doubt those beady-eyed priests recognize she's got a few stashes lying around, the way she gambles as she does.

Then it's residential checks (some strangers might call it "breaking and entering," but they're tourists), wandering about the taverns and seeing what the newcomers would like to know, and then the late-night information cache drops she leaves for her less-than-amiable friend Uvani in the alleyway near his home. She might've, in years past, attempted a little check-in, make sure the doors are locked and the windows shuttered, but after having a dagger to the throat and a few words carved into her stomach, she's learned to leave that mer and his belongings well enough alone.

It's during this little errand she runs into a new face.

"Well, well, well," she says loudly, leaning against the wall of a house she's not allowed to touch, "who might you be, love?"

It's a Dark Elf man, though _man_ might be too strong a word for someone so between-aged and sulky. His expression is a dour sort, the kind Tippy finds unattractive in its solemnity, and his hair shaved close, though she can make out the beginnings of a bright mohawk. No piercings or tattoos, she notes, so not of Morrowind—thank the gods for that—or a seasoned mercenary, whom all tend to make bad decision with needles. Which is why his being there is so strange, considering only the wildly arrogant or the battle-hardened ever stand outside the house of a Dark Brotherhood assassin.

The Dark Elf says nothing, nor even acknowledges her presence. It would annoy her if it wasn't an elf. You know what they say about the pointy-eared buggers: They're as sharp and tight-laced as their ears. No sense of fun beyond skinning things alive; no sense at all, really, beyond the drakes they carry in their purses. Bad manners are to be expected.

"You do know," she continues, "that this ain't the right house to stare at in the middle of the night?"

The Dark Elf simply makes a rude gesture. It's a rather creative one, too, with an elegant swoop and swift thrust, and its fluidity is well-practiced, his face expressionless beyond the perpetual frown. She commits it to memory and decides right then that she can appreciate him. That snob Uvani certainly deserves whatever's coming to him, and this kid might be stupid enough to at least annoy His Snobbery.

She slides closer to the Dark Elf and stares at the spot he's staring at. In the upper window, lit only by the flickering streetlamp, is the silhouette of a desk covered in what looks like books, rows upon rows of the dumb things, and a few filled bookshelves in the back. Feeling rather puzzled by the intensity of his stare, she looks back at him.

"What, you're after a book? The Imperial Library ain't enough?"

He merely gives her a side-eyed look, as if to say, _Are you stupid?_

"You're the one creeping about," she says indignantly. "And for a book of all things, not even a heap of gold."

They stand like that for a long while. No one ever comes down this way, for even if they didn't know of Uvani's little hobbies, they do know the man has a habit of intimidating his neighbors.

"Not the books," he says, finally. His voice is a mix of a sullen future deepness and the hormonal crackings of puberty. "What's inside the books."

"What now?"

"A key," he growls. His scowl is a well-practiced thing, carefully crafted to make a person question their own intelligence. Unfortunately the effect is marred by the age of its bearer. Not many are cowed by a teenager, and Tippy is among them.

"A key," she repeats in turn, her brain churning. Someone, she thinks, has been a naughty boy. "And you want this key, because?"

He slants her an irritated look. "You think I want into this business for myself? Rather kiss a mudcrab than deal with the Brotherhood."

She grins at him. This piece of information will make her dirty stinking rich. Someone after a Brotherhood assassin? It is both ridiculous and frightening, and those two adjectives together make a juicy dish. She really can't believe her luck.

"So," she says lightly, "you know about whose house this belongs to, yeah?"

He gives her a pointed look.

She hums, thinking.

If she starts now, gets her affairs in order and scrapes up the money and contacts she has, she'll probably have several scapegoats ready for when Uvani comes back on Sundas morning. It would be a gamble, but Tippy is nothing if not a risk-taker. It's how she's come to this life in the first place — Zenithar doesn't bless those who sit at home twiddling their thumbs.

"I think I'll leave you to it," she says quickly, patting him on the shoulder. If he is confused by her change in attitude, he hides it well. "Brotherhood and all that. Don't want to be involved, you see."

"Fine," he says, and he returns to staring at the window.

As she walks away, she can't help but whisper _sucker_ under her breath and feel a bit of pity for him. Of course, Fate is a funny Prince when he puts his mind to it, and by the end of the month Tippy will be dead, tortured and maimed beyond recognition, an angry Alval Uvani and his associates the culprits. They'll learn quite a few things about this young Dunmer lad, many of them drummed up by a dying woman desperate for freedom, and by the week's end they'll have put out a personal hit on him. No one steals from a Brotherhood assassin and lives.

Once the Oblivion Gates appear, the Brotherhood will repay this act with blood and flesh ten-fold. The spheres of Revolution and Transition are rather close, after all.

 

* * *

 

To the Good Ser Whom This Issue Will Concern,

I am addressing this letter to whomever it will eventually find. It appears that my business partner, an Imperial man by the name of Pustula Baenius II (aged 45, of medium height and build, black hair and eyes), is currently interred within a certain tomb ahead of schedule. He is unfortunately of idiotic stock and is trapped inside, unable to leave. If it may so please the recipient, I will award an agreed upon amount for services rendered with regard to his recovery. He is necessary to my research, so he will be required alive and intact. You may, however, superficially wound him if it serves. Attached within this letter is instructions and a return address, including a delivery point.

May you bless and be blessed, friend.

Serjo Sadras Danasi Oril  
Beloved wife of Serjo Sadras Dramis Oril  
29th Sun's Dusk  
_Signed and Sealed_

**Author's Note:**

> The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.


End file.
